Centrifugal Saints

From the other side of the room she calls to me. Iris, messenger of the gods. With his great fingers, Rodin has pried her open, flung her into flight. He has not anchored her to a face or given her eyes to discover me with, but I know how her expression bends into an oval mouth and her eyes are shut and deep. Her legs, hot texture of bronze, move out and up from the stone. From her center, the vulva frames her with two curved petals: we are from here.